


Not To Be Taken

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Victorian Holmes and Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7399543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has one treasure and he will not lose it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not To Be Taken

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry to have missed posting yesterday. I was just putting the finishing touches on this when disaster struck and the text vanished. Well, it turned into asterisks, but it amounted to the same thing. So I lost this story [and all the ones already posted in this series] and so I had to rewrite it, with only the original postcard to go on. That was just the beginning of this rather long piece, of course. Anyway, I did my best! Hope you enjoy.

Holmes absently packed his Meerschaum with more of Watson’s shag, making a mental note to purchase more when the opportunity arose. Not that his companion begrudged him making free with the stuff, but the doctor did get a bit testy whenever he opened the jar and found it empty. After lighting the pipe once again, Holmes returned to the window. It was not a pleasant evening to be out and about.

All day it had been gloomy and dank outside and they had been glad to be ensconced in the cosiness of their rooms. The deepening night had not improved the aspect Holmes saw as he gazed out the window and down onto Baker Street.

He tried to convince himself that it was just an ordinary smoke he was having, on an ordinary evening, but apparently even his great mind had its limits, because he remained unconvinced and so Holmes still felt an irritating sense of unease.

At some point, Mrs Hudson bustled in with the dinner tray. She gave an expression of distaste at the cloud of smoke that hung in the room. “You should open a window and allow some air in here before you suffocate,” she advised.

Holmes ignored that, of course.

She moved to the table and set down the tray. “Oh, dear, poor Dr Watson not returned yet, then?”

Holmes watched a hansom approach and leaned forward just a bit eagerly, but then it passed by without pausing. “Obviously,” he muttered. “Unless you think that I have concealed him behind the settee as some jape.”

He could sense without seeing the frown Mrs Hudson sent his way. “No need to be techy with me, young man,” she said tartly. “Now sit yourself down and eat a proper dinner.” Her voice softened slightly. “Your doctor will not be pleased to return and find you faint with hunger. He worries, you know.”

Holmes raised his head and saw her reflection still frowning at him.

When he made no response, she left the room with a sigh.

After a moment, Holmes did walk over to the table, but he did not even deign to glance at the plate of roast beef and vegetables sitting there. Instead, he picked up the telegram that had summoned Watson out into the miasma. 

_WIFE VERY ILL STOP PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP_

The name at the bottom, F.A. Hunt, had meant nothing to Watson. “No doubt a referral from an established patient,” he said.

Holmes leant in to look at the telegram. “The address is in one of the emerging suburban neighbourhoods. Many new residences for the middling classes. Whomever F.A. Hunt might be, apparently he has not yet found a physician.” He frowned. “Might have summoned a closer man.”

“Oh, well,” Watson shrugged. “Nothing for it but to go; he asked for me.” Donning his jacket once again, he gave a smile. “Not how I had hoped to spend the rest of this gloomy day,” he said, giving a mischievous lift of one brow.

“Nor did I want to have only the company of my journals,” Holmes told him. “How long will you be?” He asked, even knowing that it was a foolish question, because how could Watson know?

The only response [and the only one the query deserved] was a small shrug. Watson put on his warm coat, picked up his bag and, after a glance to be sure that the door was closed, gave Holmes a kiss. “Don’t be too bored,” he said. “And if I have not returned by dinner time, please eat. I can feel your ribs much too easily these days.”

Holmes only snorted and picked up his journal once again.

Watson left, calling out a farewell to Mrs Hudson as he did.

Immediately, Holmes went to the window and watched as Watson emerged onto the pavement. Coincidentally, a hansom was just passing and he was able to wave it down immediately, which was not his usual luck. _You have a magic gift for summoning cabs,_ Watson often teased.

As he climbed into the cab and without even looking towards the window, Watson gave a wave. Of course, he had known that Holmes would be watching. A smile teased at one corner of his stern mouth as Holmes returned to the chair and took up reading a most interesting monograph on blood evidence.

But that had been hours ago now. Afternoon had morphed into evening and then slid quickly into night. The dinner hour had come and gone and Mrs Hudson had long since cleared away the untouched meal, giving an even deeper sigh.

Holmes had paced and smoked two more pipes and finally poured himself a glass of brandy. There had been no word from Watson that he would be some time. Most often, in this circumstance, he would send a message.

More than once, Holmes had considered getting a cab himself and just heading out to the far reaches of London to see what was taking so long. The good doctor would not be best pleased, however; he knew that, so he resisted the urge.

At least, he resisted until the clock had crept far too close to midnight with still no word.

Billy was asleep in the foyer, so Mrs Hudson must have alerted him that his services might be needed. But there was no need to wake the boy. Well-wrapped in his warm coat and scarf, Holmes slipped noiselessly out into the night.

His own usual luck held and a moment later the hansom was racing through the dark streets of London. As he sat there, Holmes wondered if perhaps Watson’s easy summoning of a cab earlier might have been more design than luck or coincidence.

A design that could not be good for Watson, he feared

As the cab finally grew close to the address in the telegram, Holmes was leaning out the window for a better look. “Here, here!” he called out and the vehicle drew to a sudden stop. “Wait until I return,” he ordered. The man grumbled but quieted when Holmes tossed a note his way.

It was obvious from first glance that the house was uninhabited, even before one noted an estate agent’s card in the front window. Holmes climbed four steps to the door. He was not overly surprised to find that it was unlocked so, without hesitation, he went inside.

Holmes paused, statue still, listening, inhaling, deducing. After a moment, he started up the staircase to the first floor. Once there, it was a quick matter to find what was obviously the master bedroom. He pushed open the door and saw his lover in the middle of the polished wood floor, trussed and gagged.

In two bounds, he was there, kneeling, yanking off the gag. “John?” he said in a voice that was not quiet as steady as he would have liked. “John, for god’s sake, open your eyes.”

And John did, his lids fluttering, and then he looked up at him. “Not before time, my dear,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Holmes just sat there for a moment, one hand stroking Watson’s hair.

“You might release me from the ropes,” Watson suggested gently.

Feeling a fool, Holmes reached for his blade and made quick work of the bonds.

Watson stretched, moaning a bit as his aching limbs protested. “I am fine,” he said, obviously catching sight of the expression on Holmes’ face. “I was instructed to direct your attention to the letter on the window ledge just there.”

Holmes stood and retrieved the envelope that did indeed have his name neatly inscribed on its front. He carefully opened it and slid out a single sheet of fine quality linen stationery.

_My dearest Holmes,_

_In the past I have been rather entertained by your efforts at hampering my business endeavours, but now that things have entered a more delicate stage, you have become an annoyance. Because we have both enjoyed the game [we are rather alike in some ways], I have given you this warning. See how easily all one cherishes can be snatched away? This time your treasure is returned in the same condition in which I found him. There will be no second warning._

_I do hope you heed my words. I found your doctor to be a most charming guest and would so much hate for anything unfortunate to befall him._

_-M_

Holmes read the note twice, before handing it to Watson, who frowned at the words. “Moriarty, I assume,” he said. “They kept me blindfolded most of the time.”

“Obviously Moriarty,” Holmes replied, already deep in thought.

“I would kill for a cup of tea,” Watson pointed out. “And maybe a sandwich.”

Holmes blinked at him and then felt chagrined. “So sorry, old chap, of course. I must get you home. A cab is waiting.” He reached down with one hand and pulled Watson to his feet. Then, even knowing that they must go, he could still not resist wrapping both arms around his treasure and holding on.

Moriarty would not take John Watson. No matter what it required from Sherlock Holmes to protect him. 

Holmes kept a firm grip on Watson’s hand up until the very moment they opened the front door and stepped out into the London night.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Not To Be Taken by Anthony Berkeley


End file.
